


interlude: dance lesson

by vandalwithoutacause



Series: across the universe: a post-canon continuation [3]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, F/F, Fluff, Post-Canon, dancing explained poorly, i just wanted an excuse to play with FPDA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24706450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandalwithoutacause/pseuds/vandalwithoutacause
Summary: “Hey, Adora,” you say, like a jerk.I settle my hands low on your hips, as instructed, and press a single unasked-for kiss against the side of your neck. “Hey, Catra,” I return, but it comes out soft and smiling and not even half as smooth as I intended.In which Catra tries to teach Adora to dance, but Adora is too busy writing a love letter in her head.
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Series: across the universe: a post-canon continuation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786312
Comments: 17
Kudos: 127





	interlude: dance lesson

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant as an interlude between chapters 4 and 5 of [side quest,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24400729/chapters/58860928) but I think it reads fine on its own so I've posted it as a one-shot.

“Okay--no--stop. Shit, Adora, you really can’t dance _at all_.”

I stumble to a halt so that we’re standing together, off-center in Darla’s empty cargo hold, my hands resting clumsily on your shoulder and your waist. The lights down here are less harsh than they are on the main deck, for some reason. They paint your fur a cool maroon and when I look down at your easy grin it’s a little less sharp than usual.

I try to scowl. “That’s literally why we’re here, Catra.”

When you laugh, even when you’re laughing at me, it's like there’s a thin layer of glass laid over your face, keeping everyone else away. Your smile runs a crack through it, fast as lightning, and the sound of your laughter shatters the whole thing to pieces. Only for a little while.

I want, always, to hold your face in my hands and pick the pieces of your ruined mask off of your face, one by one, until all I can see is you -- perfectly and clearly. I want to spend at least the rest of my whole life doing this.

You take my hands, gently, and you drag them down to press into your hips. You lean, smirking, as close as you ever have but closer than I realized you could, and you whisper against my lips, “Pay attention.”

You lead me back to the middle of the room, your claws pricking into the back of my hands, and I have to follow you.

I learned the hard way, years ago, that you’re a faultless lead. Do you remember? Your grace, completely effortless, shouldn’t surprise me now, but the shock of it walks hot electricity up the knobs of my spine anyway. You’ve put my hands where it's impossible to miss the way you roll your hips, the lazy bunch and release of muscle and fur. You make a little side-to-side rocking motion -- I’m sure there’s a word for it -- running your hands up my forearms to snatch at the thin fabric of my shirt, and pulling my hips flush to yours.

When did you learn to dance? You’ve never told me, and it comes so easily to you now, you must have learned a long time ago. How long have you been good at this? How many dances have I missed?

You tip my chin up, and I have to look at you. “Move _with_ me, Adora. Don’t fight me.” I’m never going to fight you again. I yield, immediately, to your languid tempo.

Or -- well -- I try to, anyway. I really _can’t_ dance.

“Keep your hands where they are.” You rest a claw heavily against my chest. “Stop listening to the music. You need to feel it, here,” and you tap out a simple beat right over my heart. “Remember: _with_ me.”

We’re dancing (or attempting to dance) to a punchy, reckless piece of music that you must have loaded up on Darla before we left Bright Moon. I don’t recognize the language, but you sing low under your breath and high against my lips as you drum its lilting cadence against my chest. In the quiet months after the war, I learn more about you every day; I never expected your love of music.

You know better than to allow me the space to screw this up. You step back to throw yourself into a little spin and then pull yourself right back in -- it’s really just a lot of fun to watch, you leading yourself around our makeshift ballroom. We come back together, your back to my front, and for a moment I’m sure you’re as lost in the memory as I am. We’ve come so far from where we were; you bare your neck to me as you press your hips back into mine, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. For a little while we sway together, in time to the beat, and I unwind into the way your purr rumbles up my chest. You don’t leave enough room for me to fall out of sync.

Still, “Hey, Adora,” you say, like a jerk.

I settle my hands low on your hips, as instructed, and press a single unasked-for kiss against the side of your neck. “Hey, Catra,” I return, but it comes out soft and smiling and not even half as smooth as I intended.

You twist in the circle of my arms and when you look at me like this I have to trip, I have to fall into your eyes, and now your wrists are crossed behind my head, and you pull me down, down, into the sweetness of your kiss.

\-----

It wasn’t that long ago you asked me, your voice so high and so heavy with desperation, “What do you want, Adora?”

I can finally answer -- it's just you, Catra. It's just this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on [Tumblr,](https://sappybutchromancewriter.tumblr.com/) if you want.


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